#pschoanalysis

Mewling and bawling, we were all flung into this world, expelled from the earlier place - our home, solace, respite - and, being thus bound to a perilous journey, end in extinction. “Astride of a grave,” Samuel Beckett wrote, “with a forceps” coming or going, it is a rocketing, ratcheting, bracketing birth/death ride. Bewildered, traumatized, alone, we looked about and began to distinguish this from that, me from not-me, and thus the microscopic accretions of the promethean boon of consciousness - source of pain from knowledge of separation, privy to doubt, fear, and division, yet gift of awareness, ethical choice, and bright, necessary bauble of civilization.